


He Is Different, This One

by ASilvergirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autistic Sherlock, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Don't Post To Another Site, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft To The Rescue, Reference to Sherlock's and Mycroft's childhood, Serbia - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes Misses John Watson, Sherlock is a Mess, Synaesthesia, Torture, neuroatypical, snarky little brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASilvergirl/pseuds/ASilvergirl
Summary: How would the Serbian "interrogation" go if his captors knew that Sherlock was neuroatypical and had synaesthesia? This is an alternate version of the scene from "The Empty Hearse."A few lines of dialogue is taken directly from “The Empty Hearse”; the rest is by this author.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 22
Kudos: 113





	He Is Different, This One

The sound of metal striking flesh splits the silence.

A man — tall, gaunt, long damp curls as limp as his body — hangs from weathered chains, manacles digging into the wrists of his outstretched arms pulled taut to opposite walls of the cell in a mockery of crucifixion. He is stripped to his trousers, a stark contrast to the heavy coat, hat, and boots worn by the young corporal.

The chill of the Serbian winter lends a foreboding atmosphere to the chamber, and the silence between the strikes of the metal pipe is oppressive. Another thud of the pipe barely elicits a flinch from the man whose back is riddled with open wounds and bruises. The most recent strike has raised an impressive gash, but it did not raise a sound from the prisoner, who seems lost inside his own head, sheltered from the pain and cold by an impenetrable mental seawall. The well-defined muscles in the prisoner’s arms quiver, but the silence is broken only by the movement of the chains and the breathing of the men.

“Has he spoken?” The stentorian voice booms within the confines of the small cell.

Deep brown eyes narrow and peer out from beneath a fur-lined hat as they scan the prisoner’s body, motionless but for the shivering and heaving of his chest. Janković is a commanding presence: five foot ten inches, square chin, a thick build filling out the austere line of his uniform and winter coat.

The corporal shakes his head, averting his eyes from this senior officer. He is more frightened than the prisoner appears to be. Surely he is landing his blows? The prisoner’s back is evidence enough. How could the man not be screaming?

“Continue.” The tone is flat but the young man’s hand trembles as it raises the pipe. Another strike; another lack of reaction, save for a huff of breath.

“How long?”

“Not quite an hour, Captain Janković, sir.”

The Captain stalks the prisoner like a predator, moving slightly closer with each step.

“Food? Water?”

“Of course not, sir.”

He shakes his head. “He is different, this one.”

Janković steeples his fingers in thought as he stops circling the captive man. A thought coalesces, igniting him into movement. Without removing his gloves—wouldn’t do to touch this filth with a bare hand—he softly pinches a piece of flesh on the man’s waist. The prisoner grunts. It's the biggest reaction he's seen from the man. The Captain nods, and a satisfied smile creases the corner of his mouth. Moving ever closer, he blows a strong puff of air over one particularly nasty weal on his back. The prisoner hisses in pain. 

“Yes. Yes, this is intriguing!” His eyes scan the room, stopping when he sees a tattered, insulated food container. He raises an eyebrow.

“Lunch, sir. Stew,” the corporal stammers.

“Heavily seasoned?”

The young man nods, and complies when the officer imperiously gestures for the container.

Janković smiles again, a soulless rictus across his face. He unscrews the container, the soup’s steam rising to his nose—onions, cayenne, smoked meat, and, of course, paprika: a pleasant, appetizing scent but quite strong. Perfect for what he has in mind. He closes the lid, carries it to the prisoner, and puts it as close to the prisoner’s nose as possible before re-opening the lid. The chained man jerks with a pained gasp, then gags, dry heaves obstructing his breathing.

“Ready to talk?” he quietly asked the prisoner. A shudder runs through the victim’s body but he twists his head away.

“No? Hmm. Well, perhaps this will loosen your tongue.” Pulling a pen from his pocket, Janković gently runs its tip down the prisoner’s upper arm. The prisoner trembles with the effort of staying silent but eventually cries out.

The corporal’s face is scrunched in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Unsurprising… I have heard of this type. A rare one, this one. I believe he is what is called neuroatypical.”

“What?”

He doesn’t bother to turn away from his prisoner as he addresses the corporal. “He doesn’t feel things the way we do. A light touch hurts more than your lead pipe. The pipe, of course, is more physically damaging. Pleasant smells can be more than repellent—they can be painful. They are wired differently.”

He runs a gloved hand gently over the man’s hair, eliciting a hiss of pain.

“Talk,наказа*.”

“Purple,” the man gasps.

“The pain is purple? Hmm. And me?”

“Pantone 448C,” the prisoner spits the words out like a curse.**

“Ah, synaesthesia, too! Headquarters will want to handle this one themselves. A pity, really…But I wonder… Perhaps we can earn some kudos before he is transferred. Maybe enough to earn promotions?

This gets the corporal’s attention, but he looks equally eager and out of his depth.

“No harm in continuing our interrogation, is there? Start with forcing some of this stew into his mouth.” 

The corporal’s face scrunches up in confusion again. “But why would we feed him, sir? He should be starving, no?”

“Absolutely he is starving. His body craves food, but if he has multiple manifestations of synaesthesia, his sense of taste might well be appalled.”

Off the corporal’s questioning look, the Captain explains. “We need to saturate him with as much sensory bombardment as possible. Sounds, temperature changes, lights, colour, tastes, smells. Overwhelm his senses.

Janković digs his cell phone out of a pocket. “No signal,” he complains as he strides to the door. “I need to do some research. Begin before those from Command arrive. Breaking him is going to be so _interesting_.”

OoOoOoOoO

It starts with sound.

The soft, high whistle makes Sherlock’s eardrums feel like they are being pierced with knives. His head tosses frantically as he tries to neutralize the sense of disequilbrium. Falling, falling, falling. He is tumbling in an uncontrolled fall from the rooftop, desperately trying not to cry out. ( _Don’t let John hear you!)_ John. Anguished John. It is brutal to see the pain on John’s face as he falls.

“John!” He may have screamed it. Perhaps he whispered it. Perhaps it was a prayer.

Minutes pass (an hour?) and the sound cuts out suddenly, leaving him hovering in the air, two storeys above the street. Barts vanishes. John disappears. The silence _hurts_. It’s marshmallow white, assaulting his eyes like the glare of the sun. But the sun is impossibly cold, frigid, on his right leg; his left leg is on fire from a gentle breeze. Sensation in the rest of his body is non-existent. It is only when he manages to look down does he see that there is a portable heater focused on his right leg, while a fan blows on his left. He knows something is wrong but doesn’t realise that his legs are feeling the opposite from what would be expected. He only knows that his head pounds like it is being cleft in two and panic hovers, threatening to overtake him. There are smells. Excrement. (An animal’s or his own?) Not unpleasant. But delicate Serbian bellflowers — _C. poscharskyana_ , his mind supplies—put under his nose are repulsive! Sometime later, or maybe not, Respighi’s goddamn nightingale is pecking at his eyes and vitreous fluid drips like molten lava down his cheeks, gouging rivulets of orange.

He blinks. Blinks again. He is standing in front of himself, shaking his head in disappointment at his current predicament. “You are not yourself,” he chastises himself. Then the room is plunged into darkness, and it tastes like the Thames.

Perhaps there are voices shouting at him. Perhaps they are whispering questions, demanding answers but he cannot understand the questions. He thinks he answers in French. He’s not sure he even speaks French. ( _Kan v_ _æ_ _re_ † _,_ he thinks—Norwegian, and his ghost-double repeats, “You are not yourself” but he doesn’t understand it, except it feels _important.)_ He hears the word _pain_ coming from his lips but he only sees an image of a burnt baguette.

His tormentors’ voices are relentless. He thinks he may be losing his mind because he thinks he hears Stockhausen’s _Momente_ being played, and the dissonance causes his entire body to itch as hundreds of ants crawl up his legs, and he’s not certain if the cry he hears is the soprano’s or his own.

He is not sure what is real and what his distorted mind is manufacturing. At some point he might have passed out. The line between conscious and mercifully unconscious is thin, so he really doesn’t mind.

OoOoOoOoO

Sherlock is vaguely aware of Janković reacting to the sound of a car door slamming closed in the driveway.

“You broke in here for a reason. Why are you here? Who is funding your efforts?” Janković screams, and Sherlock can hear the desperation in his voice as he tries to salvage this interrogation before his superior comes marching into the room. The corporal has already been dismissed: the prisoner presents no threat.

Heavy footsteps. Another voice behind him. A man. Questioning… but not questioning him. It is not the corporal. Then who? Unimportant. Dismiss. _No, don’t dismiss._ The word _headquarters_ claws its way to the surface of his broken mind. Had he heard Janković address the man Colonel? He can feel the frustration oozing out of the Captain’s pores in rivers of cyan as he tries to gather enough intelligence to earn the promotion he so badly wants. He hears snatches of words: _Neuroatypical, synaesthete, freak, different, different, different._ Then more questions. Is the Captain talking to him now or to the other one?

“Tell me who sent you!”

There’s something sharp scraping his spine. It might be a feather; it feels like a hundred razor blades. It is _agony_. The chains clang as tremors whip through him, the veins on his head and neck raised and pounding. He roars. He has no strength left, no resolve. He cannot hold out. He _needs_ to talk, to tell the truth.

“Who? Give me a name!” Janković demands, his barely contained fury scorching Sherlock’s eyelids. The other man’s voice is silent.

He knows he is broken. He must answer. He can’t help himself.

“A name! Give me a name!”

Sherlock whispers, then screams, “Butterscotch!”

There is a huff of air and a thump, and the Captain lays unconscious on the floor.

OoOoOoOoO

Mycroft Holmes pockets the canister of the not-yet-approved aerosol tranquilizer, developed in the secret labs of Baskerville. The highly directive spray puts neither Sherlock nor himself in danger, but should keep the Captain out of action for at least 45 minutes, giving them more than enough time to get to the plane that is waiting. The canister has three doses remaining, and Mycroft hopes to hell he won’t need them.

Moving quickly, he finds keys to the brutal manacles that enslave his brother in that torturous position. The chains clang as they drop. Mycroft catches Sherlock as he falls and eases him to the floor. The pain of circulation being restored to his arms must be agony, and it makes the younger Holmes groan. The senior Holmes can’t allow himself to be distracted by such things. He must work efficiently, unemotionally. He wraps his arms around Sherlock in a grip tight enough to constrict his brother’s breath in the hopes of raising a reaction. Sherlock stills but is clearly still deep within his own mind.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he sighs.

No time for consolation or nurturing, he reprimands himself. He needs his brother either cooperative or unconscious; anything in between is too dangerous. Perhaps hearing his own name for the first time in two years will break through the man’s crumbling defences? So…needs must. He leans into his brother’s ear and whispers a commanding, “ _Sherlock Holmes!_ ”, and gives a forceful tug on Sherlock’s left earlobe.

Sherlock blinks repeatedly for several seconds before his eyes focus on his brother. After a moment, he rasps, “Oh!” then looks down at his now-freed arms. “Well, that’s better,” he says, and it might be funny if his delivery weren’t so far dissociative that it has come out as flat-toned as a robot.

“Time to go, brother.”

Mycroft lifts Sherlock to his feet but he is not fully himself, and he is about to pass out. Small mercies. The senior Holmes is already panting from exertion— _legwork!_ _—_ but he pulls determination from some deep reservoir. Hoping that Sherlock will not remember the ignominy of being hauled, arse in the air, he bends as Sherlock faints and gravity drapes his unconscious brother over his shoulder. Even with his adrenaline soaring, Mycroft knows he only has the strength to manage the few dozen yards to where his men await.

Past the fallen Captain…past the cell door… past a sedated guard…to the waiting car…and freedom. 

OoOoOoOoO

Safely aboard the private plane, Sherlock is snarky, and unsurprisingly uncooperative with the doctor. He regards the I.V. in his arm with disdain. His wrists and back have been bandaged, and he’s swathed in blankets. It is an hour into the flight, and Sherlock is finally conscious and alert. Judging from his pupil size and the slight slurring of his words, the pain meds are still working. Despite that, Sherlock groans as he shifts into multiple positions, each as uncomfortable as the others.

Mycroft has abandoned his Serbian attire for an impeccably fitted white starched shirt and a three-piece suit, whose jacket now lies carefully draped across a seat back. His only other concession to the situation is the loosened Windsor knot in his tie. Steam rises from the cup of very strong Assam, his tea of choice when he needs the extra caffeine. He watches his brother struggle to get comfortable as he shifts position yet again. He sympathises but doesn't dare try to adjust Sherlock's pillows. 

“What do you remember, Sherlock?”

“Pieces. I remember you attacking my earlobe, as you did when I was a child. Even then you lorded your self-proclaimed power over me.”

“’Ah, yes, the good old days.” He sips his tea. “I could not have rescued you—“  
  
“I did not need—”

“—extracted such a valuable asset without the aid of two ancillary men waiting—”

“ —rescuing.”

“Now I suppose you’re about to tell me that you were moments from escaping on your own.”

“I had a plan,” Sherlock’s teeth are gritted but it is all bluster and they both know it.

“Back to normal, then, are we?“

“You stood there and watched me being tortured. Why didn’t you intervene sooner? You were enjoying it.”

“Enjoying, Sherlock? I watched only long enough to assess the techniques they were using on you. They had realised traditional interrogation methods would not be effective against you and, surprisingly, the Captain recognised that you were neuroatypical.”

Sherlock has been adjusting the bandages on the delicate wounds of his wrists, but he is shocked by what his brother has said.

“And a synaesthete.”

Sherlock is stunned into silence. A flicker of something crosses Mycroft’s face but the emotion is quickly hidden behind hooded eyes. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “Non-traditional methods.” Some of his memories make sense now.

“Mycroft,” he says, hesitant to continue. “Did I—? Did I give up any information? Did I name anyone?”

Mycroft sighs, and puts his tea on the tray. “You did.”

Sherlock is mortified.

“You gave _me_ up, Sherlock.”

While Sherlock looks horrified, a totally inappropriate smile tugs at a corner of his brother’s mouth. “You named Butterscotch.”

Sherlock almost cries in relief before choking back a laugh. “How did you know I referred to you as butterscotch?”

“Not at all surprising that you don’t recall. You told me that yourself once, during one of your epic migraines. You said, and I quote, “Begone, you smell like butterscotch.”

“I hate butterscotch.”

“You love butterscotch,” he says with a teasing look. “And what may I deduce about that?”

Sherlock’s mouth opens, but Mycroft doesn’t give him time to answer. “Now then, brother. Your holiday is over. Shall we get on with foiling the underground plot?”

____________

* _Freak_.

**This Pantone colour was deemed “the ugliest colour in the world”. It is described as “drab dark brown”.

***Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> †A tip of the hat to BeautifulFiction. The butterscotch reference is taken from her amazing migraine story, “Electric Pink Hand Grenade,” wherein Sherlock describes Mycroft's colour as butterscotch. 
> 
> Many thanks to Anyawen, who encouraged me to write this and let my evil come out. Thanks to my lovely betas Anyawen and 7PercentSolution for their insights and suggestions, and to j_baillier for sharing her knowledge about rendering people unconscious.


End file.
